


Scotch

by littlelionlady



Series: Napoleon Solo's Inexhaustible and Exceptionally Broad Supply of Liquor [3]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst, Developing Friendships, Drinking, Drunk Illya, Drunk Spies, Family, Fluff, Gaby is a BAMF, Humour, Illya is always pining, M/M, Mission Fic, Pining, Pining illya, Spies, Spies & Secret Agents, Swearing, and i need someone to stop me, as per usual, everyone gets a surprise, family fic, i could have kept going, i got carried away, like this could turn into a whole thing, lots of scotch, maybe solo is pining too, not me, solo needs a hug, this wasn't meant to be so long, who knows - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-07
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2020-02-27 18:22:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18744550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlelionlady/pseuds/littlelionlady
Summary: It was meant to be a simple lift, and then Napoleon could finally replenish his (and Waverley's) scotch collections. Scotland wasn't too far from home, and really, they all wanted to get the bastard anyway. So why let a mission get in the way of Solo's biggest secret? Why not finish it in record time, just to bug Napoleon on the whole ride back home? And what on earth does scotch have to do with his secrets anyway? Illya and Gaby would really like to know.Or;In an attempt to introduce Illya to his favourite type of alcohol, Napoleon maybe let's slip more than he would like. And Gaby and Illya would be damned to let it slide.





	Scotch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Darkest_Sun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkest_Sun/gifts).



> Dear Darkest_Sun, 
> 
> I finally wrote you that mission fic. It's not quite what we talked about, but for now, I hope it fils the void of a missing heist.
> 
> It's very long, and it made me emotional to write. I have poured a little piece of myself into this one. 
> 
> I also wouldn't be surprised if it is horribly inaccurate and riddled with spelling and grammatical errors.

Illya secretly loved Scotland. It was cold enough to feel like a little like home, but greener, the wind biting into his exposed hands and neck. And when this mission was over, he was going to go hiking, hopefully somewhere in the north, into Ireland, where he could take in deep lungfuls of clean air and there would be nothing to make his thoughts jumble together. Maybe, if he got away from Solo long enough, he could stop thinking about him and his annoying habits and penchant for expensive things, and stupid outfits and consistent _need_ to always have the last word.

Napoleon loved Scotland too, for a completely different reason that made Gaby wrinkle her nose in disapproval.

“Scotch,” he said, “Is one of the single best things to happen to this world,” he cradled the 16-year-old single malt like it was his firstborn. It made Illya’s stomach do flips and conjured an image of Solo, sleep deprived smiling down at a dark-haired baby, its tiny fist wrapped around his finger. Illya’s heart clenched. Solo would be a terrible parent.

“Scotch,” Gaby interrupted, “Is disgusting. I don’t understand how you can drink it.”

Napoleon flashed her a look of mock hurt, clutching the bottle closer, “How could you say that?”

She examined her fingernails, only just starting to grow back after years in the workshop, “Easily. It tastes like shit. Like burning and smoke.” 

Napoleon rolled his eyes, “You drink rocket fuel for fun!”

She shrugged, “And you drink fire.”

Illya cleared his throat, “Can we argue later? Job to do,” he was looking over Napoleon’s shoulder. Their mark was across the street, sitting in the window of the pub. Napoleon nodded, and Gaby took the bottle out of his hands and put it in her overly large purse before taking his hand. It was their turn to play a couple.

Their cover was probably too elaborate but Napoleon had insisted and Waverley was inclined to let him. Napoleon was here with his fiance Gaby, under the names of Lawrence and Penelope (Napoleon had picked the name), who, as a newly appointed British citizen, was exploring the countries surrounding her new home. Illya was invited on the trip to help Napoleon select good scotch for their wedding. It was all a rather ingenious rouse, allowing Napoleon to scour bars and shops and pubs for as much of the alcohol as he could transport safely back to London. 

Waverley had, of course, accepted it, with a list of bottles he wanted to be brought back.

They crossed the street and stumbled into the bar, laughing and talking loudly. Illya found them a booth in the back and stationed himself with his back to the wall, so he could see their target over Gaby’s shoulder.

Noah Gallagher looked exactly how Illya imagined an Irish man to look; he was stocky, with red hair and green eyes. His skin was pale, almost translucent, and he had an easy smile and laugh. The only thing that Illya could see, that would suggest Noah be anything other than a jovial Irishman enjoying his Saturday in a pub with a pint, were his eyes, hard like emeralds. He met Illya’s eyes briefly across the room and nodded, lifting his glass as if to toast his presence and then taking a long pull. His hands were covered in burn scars. Illya looked away. 

“He does not look dangerous,” Illya muttered to Gaby, “And his hands have healed well."  
  
She nodded, “Yes, but Waverley has proof he is responsible for the group that started the IRA bombings in the London underground last year.”

Illya frowned, “But why would he still be hiding in the United Kingdom?” 

“Because,” Gaby said, talking like she was explaining something to a very small child. It grated on Illya’s nerves, “There is one last piece we need. And that’s where he’s hitting next.”   
  
It had been a nasty affair; Waverley and Solo had been in the fourth train when the tracks had blown up. They were both safe and had managed to help evacuate the station. But Illya had still torn through his apartment, a hospital waiting room, seven nurses, and three doctors. Apparently a few weeks later, Waverley had intercepted a shipment of explosives and contaminated it with hydrochloric acid. It wouldn’t be as volatile, but the acid would have done a number on anyone who touched it. Illya thought it was a bit sadistic, but Waverley hated it when their lives were threatened, much less his own. And Illya couldn't bring himself to care if it meant pain would be inflicted on the people who had almost cost him his partner.

Napoleon had pointed out, rather ruefully, that Waverley generally knew what to do when people were good with their hands. Gaby had stared at her own mechanically inclined fingers and shuddered. Illya hadn’t quite caught on, but let it go, probably focusing too much on Napoleon's long fingers and strong wrists, wondering what they would feel like caressing his face, his chest, gripping his biceps…

A few of Waverley’s connections had confirmed a plan for the next attack was already in place, and it wasn’t in the underground. This particular band of the IRA were ruthless and liked their stage to be high profile. The underground had caught the attention of the whole of Europe; now the actual purpose of the plan was to be executed. They just didn’t know what or where it would be.

Napoleon returned with two empty glasses and a beer for Gaby. He slid into the booth next to her and she accepted her drink with a sigh.

“I will never get used to Guinness.”

“Well,” he said, rifling through her handbag, “It was this or french vodka. Which is honestly just disgusting.” 

The handbag was snatched from him, “We’re still in the United Kingdom. Surely there’s gin? Also, what do you think you’re doing?” She sounded exasperated. 

He shrugged, “It’s not gin weather,” he held his hands out, “Can I have the scotch please?”

She sighed and tossed him the bottle which he quickly pulled to his chest and cradled, “Gentle.” But his chastisement went unnoticed. Illya looked over at Gallagher again. He was talking animatedly, glass mostly empty. 

Napoleon pulled the cork and smelt it. Illya snapped his head back and pulled a face, “What are you doing?” 

“What does it look like?”   
  
“It looks like you are sniffing cork like drug dog.”   
  
“I resent that.”

“Yes, but are you sniffing cork?” 

“Yes.”

Illya made the face again. Napoleon laughed and it made something pleasant flutter through Illya’s gut. 

He poured out two fingers into each glass and pushed Illya’s over to him.   
  
“Sip it,” he said, and then as an afterthought, “I probably should have got you some ice.”

Illya quirked an eyebrow, “What would that do?”

Napoleon grinned, almost daring Illya to protest, “Water it down.” 

He picked his up and held it out to toast the blonde, much in the same way Gallagher had done moments before. Blue eyes met blue, and Illya was momentarily breathless, “To your good health Peril,” and he took a sip, smacking his lips together.   
  
The sight went straight to Illya’s already too tight pants. He was glad for the table.   
  
Napoleon’s face lit up, “This is spectacular.”   
  
Gaby laughed at him.   
  
“No really, remind me to grab a case of it,” he paused for a moment, staring into his glass with awe, “Maybe two, Waverley will probably want some.”

They sat in silence, Napoleon nursing his glass and staring into the bottom of it like it might divulge all its smoky secrets. He was beautiful, Illya decided, perfectly composed, artfully dishevelled. Curls falling into his forehead, eyes bright and blue, a shot of golden brown through the left one, an imperfection in his otherwise impeccable facade.

Illya lifted the glass and inhaled, just to have somewhere else to look. The smell alone was enough to make his eyes water, but after the embarrassment that he had taken to calling ‘the tequila incident’ in Tijuana, he wasn’t going to let Napoleon Solo frighten him. Even the mention of it would have Gaby’s peeling bell laughter ringing in his ears while Napoleon found more jokes to throw at him. 

He’d already warned them he couldn’t hold his liquor.

They just hadn’t realised it until then. 

He took a sip of the scotch and immediately began coughing. Gaby grinned into her glass and Napoleon reached across the table and thudded him on the back. From across the room, Noah Gallagher and his counterpart looked up. As did the bartender. All three of them were frowning; the Scottish distrusted anyone who couldn’t drink their scotch straight.   
  
“Fire,” he wheezed, “It tastes like fire.”

Smoky, woody, slightly sweet. Illya let it sit on his tongue. He could taste cherries and vanilla. He wondered what it would taste like in Napoleon's mouth.   
  
It must have crossed his face because Napoleon grinned, “Good eh?”   
  
Illya shrugged, “Not terrible.”

Napoleon made a face of outrage and idly Illya wondered how someone so unfazed by the worst case could rage at his opinion on scotch, “Not _terrible_? Are you shitting me?” he hissed, “This is a Lagavulin 16 year, and it is perfect. My little sister-”

Gaby and Illya whipped around and stared at him, open-mouthed.

“Your _what_?” Illya croaked. All the colour drained from Napoleon’s face.

“Nothing,” he stuttered, looking back down at the glass clenched in his hands. He worked on relaxing his grip as to not shatter it. This wasn’t in his file. On purpose. Not even Sanders knew. No one knew. As far as everyone on the planet was concerned, Napoleon Solo was an orphan with no living relations except a great aunt who wouldn’t have known his face, even if she wasn’t senile. 

Gaby kicked him under the table, “What the fuck?”

Illya shushed her, glancing across at Gallagher, who was casting them an odd look over in their direction as he shouldered his jacket.

“It’s not time to go yet,” he muttered, sticking Illya to his chair with a hard stare. Gaby laughed at something Napoleon hadn’t said, and hit him playfully on the arm, “Smile Peril,” he muttered.

Always too fast to follow a mark, always likely to get them blown within the two minutes it took to walk around a block. Napoleon might need to be saved regularly, but Illya had almost cost them multiple missions with his lack of patience.

“But he’s leaving,” Illya hissed out from between his teeth, fixing a fake smile to his face. He needed to work on it, he knew.

Gaby finished her drink and winced at the taste. 

“We will follow. Count to twenty.”

He began counting backwards in Russian, and Napoleon huffed an exasperated sigh, leaning over and kissing Gaby’s cheek. She recorked his prized bottle of scotch and put it back in her purse. He kissed her cheek again, just to say thank you.

“Shall we go?” He announced to absolutely no one in particular. Gaby nodded. Illya was already standing. 

The blonde took the lead, and Gaby wound her arm through Napoleon’s, keeping to his stride, “We will talk about this Solo,” there was a pregnant pause, “ _later_.”

He shuddered and nodded. 

He had fucked up.

At the end of the street, Illya went left and Gaby and Napoleon went right.

“Half an hour,” muttered the Russian, before turning away. Half an hour to get the job done. That didn’t leave much room for error.

This was something the Russian viewed at a distance - breaking and entering being his imperative while Solo and Gaby proved to be the distraction. Gallagher’s hotel room was under a different name; Ferguson being as well known in Scotland as Smith was in America.

They entered the hotel lobby and proceeded to the hotel bar. It wasn’t a particularly fancy hotel, Gaby had noted, but they had the right idea about a bar in the lobby. Drinks ordered, all that was left to do was sit and wait.   
  
“At least the vodka isn’t French,” Gaby mused.

“What is it then?”

“Swedish,” she pulled a face. 

At that moment, Gallagher blew into the lobby, face red enough to match his hair, in a fit of rage that could really only be put down to his stereotypical Irish heritage. According to the bug Napoleon had placed under the reception counter, his car wouldn’t start and that was simply unacceptable. The bug wasn’t necessary with all the noise their mark was making. But it had been precautionary, to say the least. Napoleon had been counting on him making a scene. He demanded that a mechanic be called. Napoleon felt for the poor girl cowering behind the counter and fumbling for a nearby phone.   
  
Peril must have done a good job then.   
  
“That’s my cue,” Gaby said, standing and smooth out her coat. Napoleon stood with her and offered an arm, which she took and they idly walked over to a frustrated Gallagher, who was tapping expectantly on the counter and huffing his annoyance.

“Excuse me, sir?” Gaby thickened her accent, only a little and tapped him on the arm, “Maybe I can be of assistance?” Her grip on Solo’s arm was vice-like.

He turned around slowly and eyed them both, recognition flitting across his eyes, “You were both at that bar around the corner?” he sounded accusatory.

Solo nodded, and held his hand out, “I’m Lawrence, this is my fiancee, Penelope. She used to be a mechanic.” 

Gaby’s smile was disarming, and she shrugged, “My father had no sons.”   
  
Noah eyed them again, and Napoleon was not surprised at his level of distrust. Blowing up four trains and then going on the run would have made him distrustful of everyone too. He took Solo’s hand and shook it firmly, once.   
  
“I would take anything right now,” his voice was light, but those green eyes hardened as he gestured to the front doors, “After you.”   
  
He followed Gaby and Napoleon out, quickly taking the lead and pointing to a brown sedan parked on the side street.

“What seems to be the problem?” Gaby asked.

“It won’t turn over.” 

“At all?”   
  
He shook his head, “There is fuel in it.”   
  
Gaby tapped her fingers to her chin, pretending to think. She knew exactly what was wrong with the vehicle, having sat Illya down to tell him exactly what to do to cause the issue while Napoleon had been cooking the night before. Her pondering served them a purpose; buy Illya time.

“Does it choke and splutter, or make a whirring noise?” 

“It makes no noise.”   
  
Gaby tapped her chin again, “Can you open the hood for me?” She turned to Solo, “Will you get my tools sweetheart? They’re upstairs.”   
  
Noah turned incredulous, “You carry your tools around with you?”   
  
Gaby shrugged nonchalance again, “He cannot fix things, I cannot cook. It works for us.”   
  
Napoleon secretly loved how close to the truth she painted their couple story, “Of course darling.”

In the lobby, he broke into a run, taking the stairs three at a time and arriving on the third story in a matter of minutes, breathing heavily. Gallagher’s room door stood ajar, and when Napoleon pushed it open, he could see Illya still rifling through everything. 

He pulled his gun and cocked it, turned and pointed it between Solo’s eyes in a matter of milliseconds. He deflated when he registered the smirk and rolled his shoulders, flicking an annoyed look in his partner’s direction.   
  
“What do you think you are doing, sneaking up on me?”   
  
“Making sure you’re finished,” he grinned, “Seems like you’re having trouble.”

Illya growled in the back of his throat, “There is nothing here!” he gestured around the room, “Nothing incriminating.”   
  
Napoleon grinned, still angry about almost being buried underground next to a train and his boss, “You know what that means don’t you?”   
  
Illya nodded gravely, “It means I will not get to hike after all.”   
  
Napoleon just raised an eyebrow before ploughing on, “Plan B.”   
  
He left the room and ran upstairs to the suite he shared with Gaby, and pulled her toolbag out from under the bed, his gun and taser from his suitcase, and a length of rope from the back of the door where Illya was adamant rope always be stored (“For easy access.”).

Back around the corner, he found Gaby hunched over the engine of the car, poking and prodding and asking odd questions about how it sounded when started, and what it was like to drive. Gallagher looked more frustrated now than he had in the lobby. 

“Penny,” he winced, “Darling, here are your tools.”   
  
He tossed her the bag and it landed at her perfectly heeled feet. She tutted at him and began pulling tools out and leaning over the engine to work. Napoleon snuck around the other side and punctured one of the wheels. He gave it a few minutes, allowing Gaby to work in silence before -

“Sir, it seems you have a flat tyre as well.” 

Noah made another angry noise and stalked around to the side of the car Napoleon was on, crouching down and examining the wheel.   
  
“Just my rotten luck…”   
  
At the end of the street, Illya looked on, waiting for Solo’s sign.   
  
“Do you have a spare? I do know enough to change a tyre.”

Gallagher withdrew his eyes and opened the trunk, lifting the thick carpet that blanketed the bottom, exposing the spare tyre. They hefted it out and pulled a portable jack out of the back too. Napoleon rolled the tyre around while Noah set to work propping the car up. 

Gaby handed them a tyre iron without even looking over, and Noah took it, cocking an eyebrow at her.   
  
“What else do you have in there?” he asked sarcastically.

“Plan B?” she asked, looking over his shoulder at Napoleon. She was the poster child for nonchalant disdain, and Solo briefly wondered what Gallagher had said to Gaby to make her this way. Maybe blowing up four trains was simply enough. He nodded. 

“Plan B,” and he tasered Noah Gallagher in the neck, sending him sprawling to the freezing pavement.   
  
Illya appeared from around the corner then, and hefted the Irishman into his arms like he as a small child, dumping him unceremoniously into the trunk and tying his hands and feet together, taping his mouth closed, and shutting the door.   
  
“Extraction is in three hours,” he said, taking the tyre iron from Napoleon and handing the spark plugs back over to Gaby. She attached them while Illya replaced the tyre.   
  
“I’ll go get our things then, seems we have an impromptu check out.”

Thirty minutes later, with all their gear in the back seat, Solo’s suitcase filled mostly with scotch, and their cargo in the trunk, Napoleon and Illya having argued about who would have to sit in the back, and Gaby finally throwing her hands in the air and flipping a coin (Solo lost and called it rigged), they were speeding through Scottish backstreets. 

“Stirling to Edinburgh should be done in about an hour,” Solo said from the back seat, twisting his map around.   
  
“I could do it in 45 minutes,” Gaby retorted, making her point by stepping on the accelerator.

Illya made a noise of disapproval, “Yes, but we are not supposed to be caught with man in trunk of car.”

Gaby slowed down with a scowl.

They sat in silence for a while, the occasional sound of Solo’s map rustling from the back seat, and the angry sounds of Gallagher thrashing, being the only sounds to disturb them. It didn’t take long for Gallagher to stop when Gaby pulled over and Illya sedated him.

“So,” Illya sounded like he was ready to pick apart a plan, and Solo knew, instinctively, that tone was meant for him, “You have sister?” It wasn’t a question, not really. And he wondered if denying it would be worth anything, or if it would just lose his credibility. Gaby almost swerved into the other lane.

He opted for silence.

“So, what’s her name?” Gaby’s voice was just as probing as Illya’s had been.

He remained silent. Cursing and kicking himself. She was a secret, _on purpose._ For her own protection. He didn’t need people going after his little sister as leverage.

“Ruth?” Illya asked.

Gaby suppressed a smile, falling into Illya’s game with ease, “Mary?” Napoleon sighed and grimaced.

“Carol?”

He coughed.

“Nancy?”

“Linda?”

“Elizabeth?”

They kept guessing, moving from American and English names to German and Russian ones.

“Lena?”

“Hannah?"

“Zoya?”

He stopped listening to them, shame rushing in his ears. He hadn’t seen her since she was ten years old; dirty hands, eyes bright, mud streaked on her face, laughing breathlessly as she ran at him and kissed him goodbye. He scooped her up and swung her around. It was always just the two of them. Napoleon, his sister, and his overworked and underpaid mother.

“You look so handsome in your uniform,” she had giggled, tugging on his collar, “When will I see you again?” He had promised her soon. It had been close to two decades since then.

He blinked the sudden onslaught of emotion away, “Penelope,” he croaked.

There was a split second when silence crackled between them. Gaby and Illya looked at each other, and then they both looked back at him.

"You named my alias after your sister!?" Gaby sounded incredulous.

Napoleon winced, "You remind me of her, a bit. I think…" he trailed off. He didn't know what she was like now. They never spoke. He just sent her things occasionally, and money. To let her know he was alive, and he was doing what he could.

The only correspondence he had received from her was a letter to say their mother had died, while he was traipsing through Europe collecting art at the end of the war, and another note at his apartment in Washington to say she liked the scotch and if he felt inclined to send more, it would be appreciated. The note had included a hastily scribbled address. Napoleon had committed it to memory.

He was surprised she liked scotch. He did too. And everything about them had always been the same. He marvelled she had such good taste really.

He had burned the note and, on every subsequent trip to Scotland, procured a few bottles to send to her.

It was already too much communication. And he didn't know how she found him. But she did.

"That was not in your KGB file Cowboy," Illya sounded doubtful.

"Or your U.N.C.L.E file," Gaby interjected.

"Or my CIA file," he burst out, "No one fucking knows," he sounded savage, and Gaby visibly shuddered in her seat. The look Illya gave him was equal parts concern and reproach.

They continued to Edinburgh in silence, Napoleon eyeing the bottles of scotch and wondering how many he would need to drink to render himself comatose.

Gaby drove them to a private airport where Waverley and his team would meet them in an empty aeroplane hangar.

They handed Gallagher over with a bag on his head. Waverley took great pleasure in seeing the scars his acid had left on the man's hands, as he bullied him into the back seat of a large car with windows tinted black.

"Well done team," he turned to beam at them, ignoring the tension hanging in the air, "Take the rest of the week off. _Back in London_ ," he emphasised when Napoleon's eyes lit up at the prospect of running away from the interrogation he knew was coming.

Gaby and Illya turned back towards the car.

"And Solo," Waverley said, turning to him with raised eyebrows, "I trust you got the scotch home safe?"

Napoleon smirked, "Not everything, but at least three of the bottles you asked for."

"Good good," Waverley waved a dismissive hand, "Meet me in my office on Monday. I want to have a word with you about some discrepancies in your CIA file."

Napoleon's heart picked up speed but he nodded and shook his boss's hand. Waverley withdrew his fingers, leaving a small folded piece of paper in their wake, turned and left.

Illya and Gaby hadn't had time to talk to Waverley. And they weren't even clear on the big picture yet anyway. Napoleon tucked the paper away. He would read it later.

Gaby drove back to London in record time and left the car at U.N.C.L.E headquarters. Technically it was evidence and also it drove like shit.

They dumped the gear, Napoleon practically running through the door to escape them. He caught a cab back to his apartment in central London; small but well established, in the middle of one of the world's greatest cities, situated one block from his favourite coffee shop, and two blocks in the other direction from his favourite restaurant, a short walk to the train.

Before he had even closed the door properly behind him, he was reaching into his pocket to extract the paper Waverley had left in his hand, which has been burning a hole into his chest all evening.

_Knew I would have frightened you. I promise she's under no threat. You should call her._

And underneath, in Waverley's spidery handwriting, was an American phone number.

Napoleon nearly jumped out of his skin when the pounding on the door started. He hastily shoved the paper back into his pocket with shaking fingers. With all the battering his otherwise unflappable nerves were taking today, he could have used a drink.

"Solo!" came Gaby’s high voice, "Open the door!"

He just stared at it, disbelief colouring his face. _The sheer audacity…_

"We have scotch," came Illya tenor, followed by another round of thudding on tree door, "Scotch and questions!"

"And if you don't open up," Gaby continued, "We will stay out here and drink all of it!"

The prospect of such good alcohol being wasted on a pair of Iron Curtain idiots and their complete lack of taste buds is what spurred him on.

He wrenched the door open and came face to face with Illya closed fist, still held up as if to knock.

"Can I help you?" he asked.

Gaby just squeezed past, followed by Illya shoving him out of the way and hauling himself through the open door. He held Napoleon's scotch filled suitcase. Napoleon went to reach for it, but Illya dragged it out of the way.

"Tell us about her, and maybe you can have the scotch," Gaby said.

Napoleon scowled and then visibly deflated. It had been a _long_ fucking day, and here he was, resigning himself to telling these heavy-handed buffoons his deepest secret lest they beat it out of him and drink all the good stuff while they were at it. Which he was sure, by the glint in Gaby’s eyes, they would resort to.

"I think I'm going to need it to talk about her."

Gaby's gaze softened and Illya immediately looked away, busying himself with opening the case and finding some glasses in the kitchen. It wasn't the first time he was responsible for plying the American with, what he considered, medicinal alcohol.

Plus, if Illya kept his hands busy, he wouldn't be tempted to reach out and comfort the American.

A small part of him was, truthfully and quietly, hurt that he did not know about Napoleon's family when the man had clearly done his research on Illya's. But then, he really couldn't blame Solo either, knowing the weakness his mother brought to him. It was better this way, better for him as a spy and better for him. As a thief.

He returned with the glasses, while Gaby leaned over the suitcase and pulled out the bottle they had already begun drinking earlier in the day. They settled around Napoleon, who had seated himself on the couch, and Illya poured the scotch out, standing it in the middle of the coffee table between them. Napoleon refused to meet their eyes, refused to lift his head from its bowed position. Had they not known him, they would have thought he was merely asleep.

Gaby went to press him, push him into talking as her impatience always demanded. He had dangled something tasty in front of her, and was now too scared to let her snap it away. It was unnerving, seeing him so quiet, so inward focused and reserved. Napoleon, who had something to say to everything, who always had the last word. Illya put a hand on her shoulder and shook his head. Touching Gaby was smarter than touching Napoleon, but he wanted to. Desperately.

When he looked up, his eyelashes were wet, but his face betrayed nothing. Illya’s stomach and throat flooded with butterflies. He couldn’t stop himself, he reached out and squeezed Napoleon’s hand. His eyes flashed to Illya’s, unnamed emotion passing between them. Illya looked away, sure he had imagined it. Napoleon squeezed his hand tighter.  

"Her name is Penelope. I call her Penny," he winced again, and Illya wanted to rub away the lines that forced between his eyes, "I _called_ her Penny."

He paused to sip his drink, "There is a six-year age gap between us. She was ten when I left for the war."

Gaby spluttered, "You were _sixteen_ when you went off the war!?"

Both Napoleon and Illya shrugged.

"So was I," Illya interrupted. He gestured for Napoleon to continue.

He took a deep breath, lips tugging at the corners, “I sent postcards home when I could but that’s hard to do when you’re neck deep in bodies and gangrene. The only correspondence I ever got was a letter she wrote to tell me our mother had died.” 

He looked away, willing himself to stop feeling. Illya squeezed his hand again, “I had left her in New York alone. So I started to send money. As much as I could, to keep her afloat.”   
  
Illya connected the dots before Gaby did, “The thievery was to support your sister.”   
  
Napoleon nodded, “In a way. In the beginning,” he said, “It started small. Pieces of jewellery, small antiques. And then I discovered I was good at it,” he smiled then, a heart-stopping smile, eyes full of mischief, and Illya could almost picture him. Young Napoleon, working his way through rich crowds, thieving hearts and valuables. Charming his way into safes and beds and pocketbooks. Papers and maps and gadgets spread over expensive hotels as he excitedly and meticulously planned his next heist. Young Napoleon, sneaking out in the middle of the night, or maybe entering a bank under an alias, to do the only thing he could for his last family member.

Illya sipped his scotch, savouring the smoky warmth. It really was good. He imagined this was how Napoleon would taste. 

“So I kept going. I never sent too much, enough to pay the bills. Enough to keep her comfortable. Sometimes I send gifts; things she can keep or things she can sell. But always money.”

He took a deep breath, wondering if he should divulge the rest. At this point, it was just pouring out, and he wasn’t sure he could stop it, “There’s an account, set up in her name. It will pay her bills and anything else, even well after I’m gone.”

Illya smiled and ducked his head so the others wouldn’t see. He wasn’t sure why it made him feel giddy; maybe just the fact that his Cowboy would think so far in advance. Maybe just that he cared about more substance than things. _His Cowboy._ Illya tucked that thought away and sipped his drink carefully. It wasn’t helping shed the warm feeling that was spreading slowly through his limbs and reminding him firmly that this is probably exactly what the American _tastes_ like. Maybe later he would try and find out.

He put that thought away too.

“I haven’t seen her. I don’t know what she looks like. We don’t talk. I’ve had two letters from her since she was 10. All I have is an address that I memorised and burned, and,” he looked fierce then, and that same feeling swelled in Illya’s guts, “I would be burned before I gave it up.” 

Gaby nodded in silent understanding.   
  
“It is okay Cowboy,” Illya squeezed his hand one more time before reluctantly letting it go to pour himself some more of the quite excellent scotch, “We will not tell a soul.”   
  
And they wouldn’t either, Napoleon knew that. He had not breathed about Mikhail. Illya wouldn’t breathe about Penny.

Gaby frowned, “What does scotch have to do with your little, non-existent, sister?” Napoleon knew she threw the non-existent part in there for his benefit. Maybe to prove she was willing to keep the secret too.

“She likes it. One in particular.” 

Illya stared down at his glass, “This one?”   
  
Napoleon smiled, “It’s her favourite.”   
  
“How do you know?”   
  
“She told me,” he smiled sadly to himself, “It’s the only thing I know about her now. It’s the only thing her last letter said. I sent it on a whim, the cherries reminded me of her. I can’t even imagine how she sounds now…” he trailed over and patted his chest.

Illya took another swig, and Napoleon reached forward to do the same. Gaby, who did not like scotch, even poured some herself. 

“To Penny.”   
  
They raised their glasses.

 

*  


  
Two months later Napoleon answered the door dressed in nothing but a towel, hair dripping down his shoulders, and a particularly nasty bruise forming a blue tint on his jaw. His body ached, and really all he wanted was to sleep uninterrupted for twelve hours and maybe cook some pasta.

There was no one there. Just two boxes.

He secured the towel properly and picked the envelope up off the top.

_She has good taste._

The handwriting was utter scrawl and Solo recognised it immediately. It made his heart beat faster, reminded him of that night on his couch with his weird makeshift family, the hands that wrote this note squeezing his hands and stroking his knuckles. He opened the first box with shaking fingers, already knowing what it was but scarcely daring himself to believe it. Inside were a dozen bottles of Lagavulin’s finest. The second crate held the same. Penny would be thrilled. He hoped she wouldn’t drink it all at once.

Maybe this could be his excuse to call her.

**Author's Note:**

> I have to agree with Gaby on this one, I'm not a fan of scotch. But everything I know about it comes from Ron Swanson, my partner, and tasting scotch on their lips so take what little romance you can from that and run with it. All my love.


End file.
